I loved him so much. For the two of us, it was like love at first
sight – he swept me right off my feet and took me straight to the chapel to get married. He had even broken up with
his last girlfriend just to be with me. At first, I thought that he was too good to be true, but after getting to know him,
I realized that he was the nicest man I had ever met. As soon as I met him, I know that he was my soul mate, to say the absolute
least.

I met him at my best friend’s wedding. He was a friend of my
best friend, and once she introduced me to him and we looked into each other’s eyes, it was like we had known each other
our entire lives. I remember it like it was yesterday – he wore a black suit, had his gorgeous Prince Charming-like
hair slicked back, and carried the bluest of blue eyes. He had the most well-renowned personality and was a true gentleman
– one could tell just by looking into his eyes.

That day I acquired his phone number. A week later we were married.
It was somewhat of a private wedding, though we had a couple friends and family members there, but it felt like a gargantuan,
enthralling, enchanting wedding only meant to take place in fairy tales. He paid for the entire wedding, an enormous five
foot-tall cake even, and I can sincerely say that it was the best day of my entire life. At that time, and for the longest
time after that, I thought that we would be together forever – in hell, maybe.

By the time you read this, I will be dead. You can find me inside
my bathroom with my wrists slit and my body filled with painkillers, though I don’t recall the name of them. By the
time you read this, the man that I chose to spend the rest of my life with on that wedding day will be dead as well. You can
find him in our bedroom, so bloody and pulverized you won’t be able to recognize him. He has a knife through his forehead
and his genitals shoved down his throat. I killed him like they do in those low-budget B-horror movies, and I killed myself
like a girl filled with emotional tyranny. And in fact, I am – or at least I was – a girl filled with emotional
tyranny.

I always knew that he had problems with his past. He brought up several
times when I first got to know him that he was abused by his father when he was a child – not

just physically or verbally, but sexually as well. He never told
me much, but the more I got to know him, the more I realized that he was troubled by his unfortunate past. I would always
try to get him to tell me some of the things his father did to him when he was a boy, and oftentimes he didn’t want
to talk about it. But whenever he did, I listened with open ears, and he told me the horrific things he went through, the
most horrible of human crimes that nobody should have to go through. Then, he would fall on to my lap and cry his eyes out.
At first, I thought that he talking about his father helped him cope with his past – in reality, it just made it worse
for him.

That was when he started physically and verbally abusing me. It was
about three or four months into our marriage when he first hit me. Several hours after I had talked to him about his father,
I went to the store to get him some ice cream and cake as well as a little bottle of red wine to try to cheer him up. However,
as soon as I got home, he smacked me on the face because I got a flavor of ice cream that he didn’t like. Then, he started
yelling at me that I was a tramp, a bitch, a whore, and that I didn’t deserve to live. I was absolutely shocked by his
sudden violent outburst, but I didn’t think much of it at that time.

However, just several days later, he told me another story about
his father. He cried a little, but I managed to help him through it. A little while after that, I went out to dinner with
some friends (it was a girl’s night out, so he wasn’t really allowed at our dinner together). His story had made
me really sad, but the dinner helped made me feel a lot better. Nonetheless, when I got home, I found him sitting on the couch,
staring at the clock, an angry expression on his face. I asked him what was wrong, and he got hope and began screaming at
me that he didn’t appreciate how late I had gotten home. I tried to reason with him, but then he just punched me in
the face – he didn’t slap me, he actually clenched a fist and punched me straight in the face, giving me a bloody
nose. That night I went and stayed at my friend’s house, though he wasn’t happy about it in the least.

From there on, our relationship was never the same. He kept mistreating
me like I was some kind of rabid dog. He started off beating me once a month; then he started beating me once a week; then
he started beating me once a day; and then he finally started beating me several times a day. It was all for the smallest
shit – if the toast was a little bit overcooked, or if the sex wasn’t good enough, or if I came home from work
too late, or even if I made a joke and he took it the wrong way. But you know what the funny thing was? In the midst of all
the abuse, I still loved him, and still did everything for him.

After several months of taking abuse, I was afraid to go to the police,
for the simple reason that I loved him. I hated taking this type of mistreatment, but at the same time, I still loved him
– I knew I couldn’t have the best of both worlds. I was even afraid of telling close friends and family members
about some of the things he had done to me, for fear that they would try to take action themselves. Besides, I didn’t
want to burden them or make them worried about the fact that I was living with a psychotic, post-traumatic stress-ridden husband.

That is why I have decided to take matters into my own hands. I finally
decided that I am not going to let my emotions cloud my proper judgment any longer. As much as I love him, I am sick and tired
of having to deal with his bullshit every single day of my waking life. I’m smart enough to know that nobody, including
myself, is meant to take this kind of rupturing abuse.

He is already dead. Several days ago, I snuck a lethal dose of rat
poison in his dinner that I cooked for him, but he nonetheless beat me for since I overcooked the meat somewhat on accident.
The symptoms of the rat poison just started to kick in today – he began coughing up blood, vomiting to the point of
where his throat smoldered, and even hallucinating. Before long, he became so sedated that I knew it wouldn’t be long
before he bit the dust that was long overdue for him.

However, before he perished, I thought I would have a little fun
with him. I dragged him upstairs, and he didn’t fight back in the least since he was so dizzy and tranquilized. There,
I took a long, sharp kitchen knife and slit both of his wrists. As the life poured out of his deadened arms, I cut his dick
off and shoved it down his throat. Whether he choked to death, bled to death, or was poisoned to death, I do not know, but
I guarantee that you will find him rotting in our bedroom upstairs.

The painkillers are starting to kick in about now. I’m having
an exceptionally difficult time writing this down, but I just want whoever finds this to know that I died knowing that I was
now free. In fact, not just me, but him as well – I didn’t just kill him to get revenge, but I killed him to put
him out of the misery of his past. The reason I have decided to commit suicide is because not only do I want to go to prison,
but I also know that I cannot bear to live without him. I hope you understand.